Greetings angel lovers!
I have some exciting news for you – a new work of occult fiction has just been released, and my name is on the cover! And since it’s an eBook, you still have all the time in the world to order it for Christmas. Or just buy it for yourself and read it now! 😉 See below for more info, including an excerpt!
A few years ago, I did some consulting work and wrote a forward for a compact book of angel meditations called Angelic Magick: a Guide to Angelic Beings and How to Walk With Them by Judith Page. It is not a Solomonic text, though it draws heavily on Solomonic material about the angels (including their seals, khameas, functions, planetary associations, the Angelical language, etc). It’s a succinct introduction to the Seven Archangels, including simple methods of establishing contact with them via guided meditation-style pathworkings.
Then a couple of years ago, Judith contacted me with a new project. She was creating a work of occult fiction wherein the main character essentially takes the same journey outlined in her Angelic Magick book. She wanted me to check over her Angelical and Enochian material, add in some technical details (re angelology) and to bring in a bit of my personal viewpoint on the story. I thought it was a wonderful marketing idea for her previous book, and it sounded like fun (I haven’t written fiction in years!), so I joined the project.
As it turns out, this is NOT a story about someone who purchases Judith’s book and starts working through it. Check out the synopsis:
“‘In London 25-year-old Alan King receives an unexpected birthday legacy from his late father, a professor of archaeology who disappeared in mysterious circumstances eight years before at a ziggurat in Iraq. The gift is a grimoire – a book of magic – written, unbelievably, in his father’s hand. Alan is a diligent student of advanced experimental physics with a brilliant scientific mind and finds it hard to come to terms with his father’s seeming interest in medieval methods of summoning archangels. More worrying still is that the name of Lucifer heads the list.’ With advice from his more esoterically-minded friend Terry, Alan decides to try to enter the realm of angels on an experimental basis, seeing a connection between angels and photons. However, all is not ‘light’ and things do not go exactly as planned, with the appearance of seductive unearthly women and dark feathered creatures invading his life, while he follows the prescribed rituals and soars to meet the all-powerful archangels one by one, eventually uncovering a shattering secret.’”
I want to stress that this story is essentially Judith’s. It was her concept and her baby – I just came in to help her raise the little bugger. 🙂 I added in some dialog (especially for the story’s resident source of occult info Terry) and created some of the darker scenes in which Alan is harassed by the fallen Watchers. I added bits and pieces throughout the book, and both the prologue and epilogue. I also added in a tall, dark-suited, slender figure who seems to work for the fallen Watchers in the physical realm – you guys can make of him what you will. 😉
The story itself was entirely Judith’s: the grimoire Alan receives from his deceased father, his decision to work its rituals, his meeting Lucifer, his journey through the planetary heavens and his interaction with various spiritual beings (light and dark, on earth and in heaven), etc, etc – this was her vision of Alan’s journey and ultimate fate.
To finish this announcement, I thought you might enjoy reading the book’s prologue:
Aqar Quf, 230 miles south of Baghdad. 2003.
Professor George King stood outside his tent, looking over the excavation. The merciless sun had sunk over the horizon and dry desert winds were driving away the heat. Local workers, finished for the day, returned to their families, and only a few visiting students continued their labours beneath floodlights. Most of the artefacts had been exhumed over a century before but Professor King knew this place had not yet relinquished all its secrets…
In his hands he held a small journal bound in black cloth with corners of soft beige leather. Creased and stained from much use, its front cover and several pages were missing and the professor absentmindedly traced his fingers along the ragged stubs.
His attention was directed elsewhere. Across the site, beyond the various tents and cordoned off work areas, a massive Babylonian ziggurat dominated the horizon. The Ziggurat of Aqar Quf – known to the ancients as Dur Kurigalzu – was a world-famous landmark, a place of pilgrimage for thousands of years, a focus for tourism and academic fascination. It had often been mistaken for the Tower of Babel – though that temple, long since destroyed, had stood in the city of Babylon itself.
By contrast the Aqar Quf ziggurat was largely intact, rising nearly two hundred feet into the sky. Though relatively small compared to today’s sky scrapers, this primordial temple retained an aura of grandeur. The entire structure was brightly lit with spotlights, a shining jewel on the desert horizon; a monument to the godlike power of a mighty king and the stairway to the heavens for a priesthood that communed with the gods. Baghdad was, and had always been, proud of its landmark.
Professor King took in the majesty before him. His eyes traced the tiered walls and network of stairways from its base to the large shrine at its summit. Involuntarily his heart skipped a beat. “If we’re correct,” he thought, “tonight will be the culmination of a lifetime’s work and dedication. The long search for the Truth may end there, at the top of those steps.”
He turned and entered his tent, where his wife at a makeshift desk poured over pages of obscure cuneiform symbols and tentative translations. She was a linguist who specialised in dead tongues, her efforts indispensable, the translations hers. She would be at his side when he ascended the stairway.
‘You’ve checked it four times, Patricia. I’m certain you’ve made no mistakes.’ He was impatient.
She didn’t look up. ‘That’s easy to say, but you know it’s not that simple. Primordial languages have few established definitions; much has to be taken from context. And if we’re correct about the milieu of these symbols, then absolutely everything is about to change.’
Professor King moved to the other side of the desk and placed his journal on the cluttered surface. His wife looked at the damaged book. ‘You’re certain Alan will know what to do with that information?’
He nodded. ‘God willing, he’ll have guidance.’
He found a clean piece of scrap paper and wrote a short instruction to his brother to hand the envelope to Alan at the proper time. He wished he could say more to his beloved twin, but he couldn’t risk any information falling into the wrong hands.
As the professor signed the note, his assistant entered the tent and softly cleared his throat.
‘Ah, just in time, Hakim.’ said King. He wrapped the book in a piece of cloth, placed it together with the note into a large envelope, and handed it to the young man. ‘You are to drive to Baghdad immediately, and see that this is posted back to the UK.’
The assistant looked confused. ‘Sir, I’m sure I can find a place closer…’
‘No Hakim, I want you to drive to Baghdad and stay at a hotel tonight. Not under any circumstances are you to come back here.’
The young man looked dubiously at the professor and his wife then glanced over his shoulder at the distant ziggurat. When he turned back, some of the colour had drained from his face. He took the envelope cautiously from the professor as if it contained volatile chemicals, then he turned on his heel and sped out of the tent. King trusted him; the envelope would make it out of the country before anyone knew to look for it.
The professor gazed at his wife. Even after these years in the pitiless desert, she was the picture of loveliness. He heaved a sigh, ‘I believe it is now or never, my dear.’
Patricia rose, gathered up her papers and gave a tight smile. ‘We could still be wrong about this.’
But they both knew better.
As the couple walked together across the site toward the ziggurat, many of the workers and students still present watched them curiously. It was unorthodox for anyone to approach the ziggurat at this time of the night.
They reached the foot of the monument and began to ascend; treading purposefully up the steps. Patricia looked at her papers and began to chant in a sing-song voice. Her words were indistinct but the sound could be heard throughout the encampment, and this drew even more curiosity. A few bystanders began to move toward the base of the ziggurat.
The professor and his wife never looked back. They continued up the stairway at a deliberate pace, the lovely English woman chanting mysteriously at every step. Soon they reached the summit and disappeared into the shrine.
The only sound now remaining was the steady hum of the wind and the murmur of those who had gathered at the base of the steps, gazing upward, wondering what the professor and his wife were doing in the highly restricted area.
Suddenly, the sky was lit by a massive flash of light. For a moment it seemed the sun itself had dawned atop the ziggurat, turning night into day. It came without sound, but a mighty shockwave rippled outward from the structure, knocking the onlookers from their feet and tearing many of the surrounding tents from the ground. Those who had been watching the summit found themselves blinded – some for a few hours; a few for several days.
Everyone else rushed toward the ziggurat. Frightened theories circulated. Was it a terrorist attack; a U.S. air strike? Was it a nuclear bomb?
The authorities, both British and Iraqi, were notified. Those who had been blinded were taken to hospital, and those who remained took stock and considered clean-up strategies. A small group of brave souls decided to inspect the summit of the ziggurat before the authorities arrived and the area sealed.
Yet when they reached the temple top they found no damage whatsoever. The walls and their inscriptions were all intact. Even the dust and sand appeared entirely undisturbed.
Except for one place. In the centre of the room was a spot carefully swept clean. Here, freshly drawn with chalk, was a strange symbol. A large circle, more than wide enough for a person to stand in, contained inside it a large heptagon, and within that a seven-pointed star. In the very centre was another heptagon surrounding a pentagram – a five-pointed star. The entire symbol was filled with letters and words that spelt out nothing known from any human tongue.
There was nothing else. The professor and his wife were gone, leaving no other evidence they had ever been there.